


the voice in my head that keeps me sane

by second_hand_heaven



Category: James Bond - All Media Types
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Character Study, Developing Relationship, Dubcon not between main pairing, Extremely Dubious Consent, Hurt/Comfort, It ends soft I promise, M/M, Off-screen dubcon, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Q looks after Bond, Rape Aftermath
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-18
Updated: 2020-03-18
Packaged: 2021-03-01 00:42:08
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,958
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23206435
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/second_hand_heaven/pseuds/second_hand_heaven
Summary: Bond endures a rough honeypot mission; Q helps him through it and afterwards.(see note at the beginning for discussion of the Archive Warning)
Relationships: James Bond/Q
Comments: 11
Kudos: 157





	the voice in my head that keeps me sane

**Author's Note:**

> The rape/noncon archive tag may have been a little excessive but I want to make sure that this fic is upfront about what is being displayed so people can make the right call for their own state of mind. 
> 
> Mild fic spoilers ahead  
> As mentioned in the tags, the dubcon (because Bond does consent, but it is for the sake of the mission so it's obviously not consensual-consensual) happens offscreen, but what happens immediately before and after is shown in full detail and may be distressing. The main characters talk about the events in a very frank manner. Honeypots are horrible, this one more so, and I wanted to explore how this would affect not only Bond, who is experiencing the brunt of it, but Q, his handler, who is watching these things happen. 
> 
> Okay so warnings and explanations aside, here's the fic. It's definitely angsty but ends really soft, so I hope you enjoy this.  
> -Nova xx

Bond splashes cold water on his face in an attempt to calm his… not his nerves, but whatever it is that twists his insides up in a bow. The sleek, modern lines of the mirror frame Bond’s uneasy and dripping reflection. 

His mark is waiting in the adjoining room, the bedroom, with at least four guards set blocking the exit from the bedroom to the rest of the villa. Dozens more are spread through and around the building. Bond could take them on, of course, and might even come out of the firefight alive, but his instructions were clear: get cozy with the boss, get taken home, get _taken_ , and somewhere in that space of time, get to the boss’ private computer so Q branch can remotely access it. Easy. 

It’s just like plenty of missions he’s done before, but something about the man he is targeting for this honeypot has his nerves on edge. 

_“Alright, 007?”_ Q’s voice chirps through his earpiece. 

“Fine,” Bond says, trying to keep the snark out of his words, hands braced on the vanity. “I can do this.”

 _“I know you can. And before you start, I will be here regardless of whether you think you need my help or not.”_ A pause. “ _Be careful, 007.”_

Bond grunts his affirmative and tries not to think about Q seeing and hearing everything that’s about to unfold in the next room. It won't be his finest moment, not something he'd ordinarily want the Quartermaster to see. But Q is his handler for this mission, which means he gets a front row seat to the blood and guts and gore of a honeypot mission targeting a man who gets off on causing pain. 

It's not the first time Bond's done this, and he doubts it will be the last, but it's the first time Q has been on the other side of the ear piece for this kind of mission. If Bond is honest with himself, which he rarely is, he doesn't want Q watching. Doesn't want the man to think even less of him. 

He knows the way Q looks at him, the wary interest, attraction, even affection on occasion. Again, if he's honest with himself, he likes it. Nothing will come of it. Nothing could ever come of it, even if Bond actually was honest with himself about this kind of thing. 

God, he doesn't want Q to see this. But what he wants doesn't matter right now, not with the mission at stake. Bollocks. 

When Bond enters the room, his mark, Damon Carson, drug-runner, gun-runner, and half-marathon-runner, is waiting. An assortment of restraints, floggers, condoms, and whips are laid out on the bed. There's no sign of any lubricant. A set of handcuffs, proper metal without the fuzzy padding, dangle from Carson's fingers. 

“ _Bollocks,”_ Q says, and Bond agrees. Restraints make things a little more difficult, but not impossible. He'll still be able to carry out the mission, and that's his focus right now. 

Carson grins, as lecherous as he had been in the darkness of the club beforehand. "You took your time. I'll have to chain you up to keep track of you, I think." 

“It’s fine,” Bond mutters under his breath, then louder so his mark could hear him, “I can take it.”

“You’ll take it alright,” Carson says, “whether you’ll like it is another thing.”

Bond has been beaten before, both in and out of the bedroom, for missions in both regards. This is nothing new. “I like it rough,” Bond rasps, stepping closer to his mark. 

“T _here’s rough, and then there’s this. Bond, please.”_

"On the bed," Caron says, "face down."

So Bond complies, and into his pillow he murmurs only for Q to hear. "Get it together. I've got this."

Cold metal snaps around Bond's wrist. "Already moaning? What a fucking whore."

“Just shut up and fuck me already,” Bond says, and he’ll regret it, he will, but it’s for the good of the mission, so he gets on with it. 

For Queen and bloody country. 

* * *

He’s still handcuffed to the bed when Carson finally falls asleep. It barely takes any time for Bond to dislocate his thumb, escape his restraints and work the joint back into place, but buttoning his shirt proves beyond his capabilities. He settles for leaving the fabric hanging open across his shoulders, pants and trousers hanging low on his hips. 

_“Bond?”_ Q asks, almost tentative after the prolonged silence. 

“Q?”

A pause. Bond imagines the Quartermaster chewing his lip, a habit of Q’s that does nothing to deter the attractiveness of the man. _“Are you alright?”_

“Peachy. Left to the office?”

 _“Uh yes, door on the left. Locked, biometric scan, but if you give me a moment…”_ Q hums to himself and Bond can almost hear the soothing clack of his keyboard as he does whatever Quartermaster magic is required to unlock the door. The light above the scanner flicks from red to green. Bond slips through the door and closes it softly behind him. 

The laptop sits in plain sight on the centre of the desk. It’s almost too easy, but then Bond remembers the earlier ordeal with every step he makes across the room and considers that perhaps it wasn’t so easy. Regardless, that part is done, he reminds himself, and focuses on the task at hand.

“ _Alright, 007, I just need you to insert the drive into the laptop and then we’re done.”_

“Easy,” Bond says, and after three tries he manages to insert the USB. 

“ _I’m in. Excellent work, 007. There’s a flight booked for your alias to London leaving in 45 minutes.”_ A pause, and then, “ _I’ll leave my door locked.”_

Bond puzzles over that for a moment. There’s a meaning hidden beneath those words, something he can’t quite grasp. 

His door. The door to Q branch? His office door? His flat? 

Bond’s ready to dismiss that last option, but waits. Why would he tell Bond that his door is locked? A sign to keep Bond away, to tell him he is unwanted? 

No. Q would never be that cruel. Not to him, Bond is sure. So he considers again. 

Locked the old fashioned way, locked so that it can be picked, so that Bond can get in, Bond understands. He’s not sure he understands the kindness behind the offer, but considers it at least. “Thank you, Q,” he says, but he’s answered only with silence. 

* * *

It doesn’t take long for Bond to pick the lock on Q’s door. He makes a mental note to tell Q to fit a better one, or better yet, multiple locks, as the door swings open. 

His flat is some kind of organised chaos, lived-in in a way that makes Bond’s chest ache as he steps over brightly coloured cables and around half-stripped hard-drives. The lounge, dining room, and kitchen all meld into one space, darkly polished floorboards flowing from the entrance of the flat to the two doors at the back of the apartment, what Bond assumes are the bedroom and bathroom respectively. 

He heads for the shower and finds clean towels folded and set on the vanity. He half expects a chocolate atop the bed's pillows at this rate. 

Fiddling with the taps, Bond starts the shower, letting the stream of water heat up as he strips off the remainder of his clothing and steps under the spray. The scalding water pours over his skin, melting away some pain and awakening more. From that, he catalogues his injuries. A bruised thumb, chafed and raw wrist, broken skin and welts along his back and thighs. The bruises at his throat are still there, he discovers as he prods the tender flesh there, but he’s pleased to find the skin of his cheeks remain unbroken and unmarked. A high enough collar should do the trick until the bruises fade. His arse… he doesn’t want to think about it, but he cleans himself up, ignoring the sting as he washes away the other man’s filth. 

Bond steps out of the shower and dries himself quickly and methodically, before realising he has nothing to wear. The clothes he arrived in turn his stomach and it takes a solid few deep breaths to calm himself enough to keep the bile down. He tosses them in the sink with half a mind to set them on fire, their price tag be damned, but he remembers quick enough that this is not his apartment, and the smoke alarms aren’t likely to be just for show. 

He hears the front door open and close, and decidedly wraps the towel around his waist before stepping out of the humidity of the bathroom, gun in hand. 

“Bond,” Q greets him, setting his satchel down on the kitchen counter. He either doesn’t see or isn’t fazed by Bond’s weapon pointed at him, and Bond doesn’t know which is more alarming. 

“Q.” Bond lowers the gun, then decidedly sets it down on the counter beside Q’s bag. 

Q looks over at the gun, then up at Bond. His eyes fall from Bond’s face and land on his throat. The gaze is heavy. “You should have Medical take a look at you.”

“I’ve had enough poking and prodding for one day,” Bond grunts. He’d made an appointment for tomorrow though, to get checked out and tested and take a course of antibiotics as a precautionary measure. As much as he hates Medical, he needs to be in decent shape for his missions, especially after… that. 

Q swallows. “Understandable.” He looks away and busies himself with tidying up the bits and pieces strewn across the kitchen counter, filing through envelops and double-checking their contents before tossing them in what Bond suspects is a recycling hamper. There's a glossy flyer for a new Indian restaurant opening up further down Q's street, which finds pride and place on the fridge, held up by a magnetic Scrabble tile emblazoned with the letter Q. How fitting. 

Bond supposes this is what it's like, for real people. Come home from work, check the bills and tidy the mess you couldn't be bothered to clean before work, a mess that never really leaves. He thinks of his own apartment, sleek and modern and absolutely empty, no mail, no food wrappers, nothing out of place. He tries to ignore the reason why he came here, to Q’s home, to Q, and not his own empty apartment. It doesn’t quite work. 

Q turns and finds Bond still loitering, waiting. Bond watches the recognition dawn on him, eyes flicking down to the towel, back up, cheeks flushed, and back down again. “Bedroom, bottom drawer. There should be some tracksuit bottoms that should fit you.”

Bond turns wordlessly and slips into Q’s bedroom. He does his best not to pry, but some things can’t be helped. The way only one pillow looks slept on, no photos, no clothing too large or uncharacteristic of Q to wear; it's obvious the Quartermaster is single. Although, Bond considers, it should be obvious that Q lives alone solely from the fact that he invited Bond around, by telling him to pick the lock no less. 

He rummages through the bottom drawer of the dresser and, sure enough, he finds a pair of thin pair of black joggers that fit around his waist, only wincing a little as he steps into the trousers. They're a little snug across his thighs, and he has to untie the cord that cinches-in the waist, but they will do. He returns the towel to the bathroom, hanging it up beside what he assumes is Q’s own. 

Returning to the kitchen, he finds Q at the stove, heating up something that smells wonderful. 

“Made a batch of pumpkin soup on the weekend,” he says, like it explains a thing, like it’s a normal conversation about weekend plans between colleagues.

“Didn’t know you cooked.” 

“Oh, I don’t really, but one needs a feed every now and then. At least this is something that’s rather difficult to bugger up and keeps well. And besides, I thought soup might be gentler on your throat.”

He turns back to stirring the warming soup, but Bond can see the warmth in Q’s cheeks. He isn’t quite sure how to respond to that, to Q’s consideration of Bond’s… injuries. He isn’t quite sure what to think of this whole scenario, if he’s being honest. When was the last time someone invited him over, fed him, with no expectation of anything in return? Bond can’t think of any, not for a long while. But Q wouldn’t want anything in return, right? 

“Bond?”

James looks up and finds Q watching him, brow furrowed in what might be concern. “Sorry?”

“I asked if you wanted toast.” The plastic bread bag crinkles in his hand. 

“Yes, please.”

He watches Q slip the slices of bread into the toaster and press the lever down with two fingers. He watches everything, every movement, as if Q is mere moments away from ripping the toaster out of the wall and hurling it at him, or poisoning the bread as it toasts, or-

Enough. This is Q, and this is Q's home. This is his kitchen and his soup and his fucking toast, not some criminal's lair, not some hostel where the chef has an extra hundred quid in his pocket for adding an extra kick to Bond's breakfast tea. 

The toast pops. Bond doesn't flinch. 

They sit at the cramped dining table and eat in silence. 

"I'm sorry this isn't much," Q says, "I had to brief 003 for their mission, and the Tube was delayed as usual, and I didn't want to keep you waiting so long so-"

"Q, it’s fine. It's delicious."

"Oh," he says, staring into his soup. 

Bond huffs out a soft laugh at that. “You’re much too harsh on yourself,” he says, and he means it lightheartedly, but Q’s expression closes off even further. 

Words have hardly been Bond’s strong suit, and now it feels painfully obvious. Bond backtracks, tries to think what he has said wrong, how to amend it. “Q?”

“What happened today, I, it wasn’t okay.”

“The mission?”

Q drops his spoon into his half empty bowl. “Of course the bloody mission! A mission you should never have been on, never been assigned to. Honeypots are horrid enough as they are without you having to… without _that_ happening. All in the name of _Her Majesty's Secret Service_.” Q snorts, derisive and cold.

"I've had worse," Bond shrugs, and tries not to think about the worse times. There's no point loitering on them now. 

"I can't picture much worse than this."

"Why, because it wasn't some young blonde woman that half the office was drooling over?"

"Hardly." Another scoff and Q throws him a curveball. "It's because he hurt you."

“I’ve had worse,” Bond says quietly, and then either bravely or stupidly adds, “it was better with you there.”

Q sighs, shoulders sagging. “Bond.” 

He feels reproached, is almost apologetic for the admission, but when he looks up, Q is gazing at him intently as ever. 

“I was your handler for a mission where you were raped and beaten, and you’re telling me that I made it better.”

A rather blunt question deserves a rather blunt answer. “Yes.”

Q scrubs a hand across his face, a feat considering he’s still wearing those ridiculous glasses. “You shouldn’t have been in that position. _I_ should have never let you be in that position.”

“It was the mission.”

“It should never have been. MI6 can’t just send you out to be raped for a pile of outdated information.”

Bond files the notion of _outdated information_ for later, it’s not important right now. “And what, let someone else take my place?”

Q scowls at him. “That’s not the point. That's not the point and you know it.”

“It’s exactly the point. I was assigned that mission because I could handle it, and I did. I handled it, so no one else would have to.”

Bond expects another argument, voice raised and anger palpable, but Q softens, eases back. “Is that what makes it easier?” he asks, barely a whisper. 

Bond nods. 

“Okay.” Q takes a long drink of water and sets his glass back down on the table painfully slow. “Doesn’t make it easier for me, but knowing it makes it easier for you, well, that bit might.”

Oh. Bond supposes it can’t be easy hearing, seeing that happen, but Q is a professional and so is Bond. It’s all part of the job. Whether Q likes it or not, it's what happens, a reality that Bond has made his peace with, and that Q needs to as well. 

What might make it easier, too, Bond thinks, is if Q leaves the thought of Bond, bloodied and bruised and, well, _harmed_ , behind him as he heads home for the evening. If he forgets it, forgets Bond. Which leads to the next question, the one that's been plaguing Bond since the mission itself. 

“Why am I here, Q?”

Q knots and unknots his fingers. “I wanted to make sure you were okay,” he says eventually, “that you didn’t have to be alone if you didn’t want to be.”

It's sentimental enough that Bond's stomach threatens to upend itself. He never claimed to have healthy reactions to things, to good things, though, but then again he has to in his line of work. He appreciates it, he does. Thinks it's awfully sweet that Q cares, so he offers, as best as he can, a stilted, “thank you.” 

Q pulls a face. “Of course. End of a mission doesn’t mean the end of my duty of care.”

It does, it certainly does, or at least it should. The moment Q leaves the lab, the moment he shuts down his comm to an agent, all thoughts of work should be gone. Attachments in their line of work are useless at best and deadly at worst. And Bond, well, Bond has a pretty poor record when it comes to attachments, even by double-oh standards. 

The fact that Q wants to look after him once the mission is over is dangerous, and not just for Q. It’s almost like aftercare, Bond thinks belatedly. He’s not quite sure what to do with that thought, and the implications that go with it, though, so he shoves it to the back of his mind with all the other useless thoughts like that. 

Bond looks up and finds Q back in the kitchen, the sink filling with water. 

Bond snatches a tea towel from where it hung over the oven door and begins to dry. 

Q casts him a concerned look. “There’s no need to-”

“Let me.” Bond sets the bowl down on the counter and reaches for the next. "Least I can do."

Q doesn't go back to scrubbing the pot. He clenches the edge of the sink, knuckles growing paler and paler by the minute. "You don't owe me anything, Bond."

Bond hums to himself and continues to dry the dishes. "Neither do you," he counters after a long while. That earns him a shrug, so he continues. “Do you think M loses sleep over sending agents to missions like this? Of course not.”

“That’s because M is a bastard,” Q snarls. 

“M is doing his job, just like you and me.”

“No, not like you and me. You are in the firing line, you are the one that gets hurt.” Q’s jaw clenches and unclenches. He swallows, throat bobbing far too distractingly for this type of argument they’re having. “You are the one that has to deal with this. M and I get to walk away.”

“Then walk away, Q.” It’s a challenge, sharp, and maybe it's a bit too cruel for all the kindness Q has been showing him this evening, 

“Bond.”

“Walk. Away.”

“I _can’t_.”

Bond sets the tea towel down on the counter and turns, his back leaning against the edge of the bench, his eyes firmly on Q’s too still form. He waits, and keeps on waiting, but his Quartermaster, the one who always has a sharp word on his tongue, is silent. 

“If you can’t be my handler, I understand. But know that there’s no one I’d rather have watching my back than you.” It’s too much of an admission, too much of the truth, but it’s the truth nonetheless and it sinks like a stone between them. 

Bond turns to leave. It feels like it’s the only option after burning whatever this olive branch Q is trying to offer him. 

"Bond," Q says, and it sounds like a plea. "James." 

So Bond stops, waits, and doesn't move as Q steps forward until he is right in front of him. Tentative fingers reach forward, slowly, each move telegraphed for Bond's benefit. Q's too, he supposes, since he's certain the Quartermaster wouldn't appreciate a broken wrist. Warm fingers graze his collar bones, sweeping across the tops of his shoulders and along the thick tendons of Bond's purple and blue throat. 

Bond stands perfectly still beneath Q's touch, a sculpture unbreathing beneath an artist's hands. The touch is gentle enough not to aggravate the bruises, and he wishes it would. Bond knows how to deal with pain; it’s the tenderness that he can’t figure out. 

Q leans up and in, painfully slow. Bond knows what the other man is doing but it still takes him by surprise when he feels Q’s lips against his own. By the time Bond’s hands realise they can, should be touching Q, the kiss, as chaste as he can ever recall for a first kiss, is over.

“I could never trust anyone else to be your handler,” Q admits, “some days I can’t even trust myself.”

“I trust you.” The admission doesn’t hurt quite as much as it did the first time. “You know I do.”

Q chuckles at that, softly, his fingers twitching against Bond’s skin. “That’s why.”

"You care too much," Bond warns him. 

"Maybe," Q says, "but there's no changing that."

Bond's mind fills with millions of ways he could make Q care less, all with the common denominator of hurting Q in the process. Everything will hurt, one way or another, the caring-too-much, the not-caring-enough. Everything. 

Bond knows a thing or two about pain, knows that he doesn’t want to cause Q any more pain than he already has. So he leans in again, cradles Q's jaw in his hand, and lets his lips find Q’s in the gentlest way.

Tenderness might be foreign to him, but Bond is a fast learner.

He pulls back soon after, not far, and the two breathe together for a moment longer. “I should go.”

Q bites his bottom lip but doesn’t protest. His fingers, however, don't move from Bond's throat. 

"Q?" He won't move until Q does. 

"You can't go out like that."

Bare chest and bare foot, in a pair of tracksuit bottoms and nothing else, Bond supposes Q is right. Not that he'd let propriety stop him if he really wanted to leave. Which stumps him, of course, because doesn't he want to leave? He was the one to offer, no, inform of the next course of action. Or perhaps a better question: isn't it better if he leaves now? 

"Call Moneypenny in the morning," Q continues, "she'll send a car and a suit around for you."

"Oh?" Bond arches a brow. "And what will we do in the meantime?"

Q either doesn't register the flirtatious tone or simply ignores it. "Do you want to watch some telly?" he asks. 

And yes, Bond thinks, yes he does. 

_FIN_

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you. Comments and Kudos are most welcome. 
> 
> -Nova xx


End file.
